


And We Go Blindly

by umbrafix



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, And that's a well known fact, Bagman is a euphamism for other things, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 13:51:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9387950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umbrafix/pseuds/umbrafix
Summary: An AU in which ‘bagman’ encompasses a lot more duties… personal ones. Set post-pilot episode.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve had this in my head since literally the first time I ever watched the show, but never written it because oh my god I think it makes me a terrible person that I have these thoughts ;)
> 
> For warnings please see end notes

“I’ve been thinking,” Thursday said on the way to the station, having bundled a bemused Morse and luggage into the car. “What if you were to come and work here? You’ve clearly had enough of Carshall.”

 

Morse made a non-committal noise, keeping his eyes on the road as familiar streets went by through the wind screen.

 

Thursday reached over and tapped the dashboard, “Pull over for a minute, would you?”

 

The streets were quiet around here – far enough from the city centre and at an odd time of day. Morse pulled up at the side of the road, rolling to a gentle stop, and gave Thursday an uncertain glance.

 

“Look,” Thursday said, sure now that he had Morse’s attention. “It’s not worth packing it in due to a bad case and worse management. You did a good job, Morse.”

 

The earnestness of his tone, the belief, was difficult to process. Who was the last person to have looked at Morse and thought he’d done a good job of anything?

 

His mouth twisted.

 

“I was planning on leaving before anyway, sir. It’s just not what I want anymore.”

 

“Not what you want, eh?” Sharp eyes assessed him. “And why’s that then? Seems to me you’ve got good instincts, that you enjoy the work. Need a bit of honing, maybe, but we can fix that.”

 

Morse met his eyes briefly; the DI was talking about him like he was a project of some sort. “Really, sir, I’m not worth the effort,” he said wryly.

 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Thursday said, and settled back into his seat. “I’m in the market for a new bagman, now. I had Lott foisted on me by Crisp a couple of years ago, and he wasn’t what I’d want in a bagman in any sense of the word. Corrupt wanker,” he added in a mutter.

 

“You’re joking,” Morse said incredulously, and Thursday looked over in surprise. “Me, your bagman? But I-“ he glanced down at himself. Eventually he finished with, “I’m not even a sergeant yet.”

 

“You’ve got what it takes, though, which is more than some.” Thursday considered him for a moment. “I’d see you through your exam, set you right. I told you before that don’t know who I can trust – I’ll clean house as much as I can now but I can’t fire the whole station.”

 

Morse let out a huff of breath which might have been a laugh.

 

“But you… We worked well together on this case. You’ve got a keen eye. So yes, I’d want you as my bagman.” The words hung in the air for a few seconds. “Anyway, have a think about it. I’ll put a request through, you can take it or leave it as you choose.”

 

Morse looked at Thursday again, really looked. The steady hands, the face weary but still handsome. The eyes bright and measuring. Thought about serving him, working with him, every day for years. It… wasn’t an unappealing notion. So far the DI had struck him as a good man, a good officer. The only worry was if he was a bastard underneath it, like most of the higher-ups Morse had so far encountered.

 

He gave a slow nod. “I’ll think about it.

 

\--------------------

 

“New boy, eh?” ribbed a tall, angular man as Morse walked through the CID response room with a cardboard box between his hands.

 

“Oh,” said Morse, and hastily put the box on the nearest desk so that he could shake the hand held out to him. “Yes. Morse.”

 

“I’m Jakes. Detective Sergeant.” A second passed. Two. “You a DS too?”

 

“No, it’s constable.”

 

Jakes nodded, apparently satisfied that he’d won the contest of rank. “You can stick yourself in the corner then, and I’ll get one of the others to show you around. Strange!” he called across the room.

 

“No, it’s alright,” Morse said, “I’ve been here before. I, uh, I’d best go report in.”

 

Jakes watched him pick up his box with a puzzled frown, but moved to block him when he headed towards Thursday’s office. “You can’t go in there. DI Thursday doesn’t like to be bothered. He’s very busy at the moment – acting chief-super.”

 

“He asked for me,” Morse said, a little sharply, and stepped to the side to continue on.

 

His knock was answered in seconds with a brisk “Come in,” and he found Thursday on the phone as he slipped inside.

 

A quick look around showed the same mess of paperwork he remembered from last time. He could understand why Thursday hadn’t wanted to move into Crisp’s old office – he’d never have been able to sort through all of this.

 

Of course, that would probably be Morse’s job now.

 

Thursday held up a finger in the signal to wait, and carried on with his conversation whilst Morse blatantly snooped around his office. Photos on the desk – wife and two children. Pipe holder. Discarded wax paper in the bin – likely previously used to wrap his lunch from yesterday, so he ate at the office and the cleaners must not come til mid-week. Spare jacket hung up by the door alongside his coat.

 

“Seen enough, have you?”

 

Morse snapped back around to look at him, and shrugged.

 

“Well.” Thursday nudged the phone back across the table, and contemplated Morse for a moment. “Didn’t think you’d come.”

 

He had to smile. “I wasn’t sure I would either, sir.”

 

“Hmm. Glad you did, I could more than use a hand. Though, to be honest, I’m mostly stuck in here until they appoint someone to do this ruddy job.”

 

Morse cocked his head. “It won’t be you, sir?”

 

“Me? God no. They’d not want me, and it would drive me nuts in a week. Has been, to tell the truth.”

 

“I’m happy to help however I can, sir.”

 

Thursday gave a nod towards the chair on the opposite side of the desk, and Morse dropped gracelessly into it. “Found a place to stay, then?”

 

“Yes, over by the bakers on Robinsfield. Actually, _above_ the bakers.”

 

“Least you won’t go hungry then.”

 

Morse looked down at his hands, laced tightly together in his lap. His lack of response was apparently telling.

 

“Took a lot on faith, didn’t you, coming here?” Thursday asked, seemingly rhetorically.

 

“Well, I’ve, um,” Morse reached up to scratch the back of his head, hair tangling through his fingers. “Never been a bagman before.”

 

“You don’t say.”

 

Morse gave Thursday a quick look, but found the DI’s lips curled up in a slight smile. It wasn’t the mocking one he’d half expected, and he relaxed.

 

“I just meant-“

 

“I know what you meant,” Thursday interrupted him, and considered him for a moment. “We’ll take it as it comes. There’s a desk for you in here, if you can find it under that lot, or you can start out there-“ he nodded at the door “-til we get you sorted.”

 

Morse looked at what he thought must be the suggested desk in the room, thoroughly buried by paperwork and boxes of _more_ paperwork, and smiled weakly.

 

Thursday snorted. “What’s in the box?” he asked.

 

“Oh.” Morse glanced down to where he’d left it on the floor. “Books.”

 

“Expect to be doing much reading during work hours, do you, Morse?” Thursday’s voice was bone dry.

 

“No, sir.” And Morse’s was bold to meet it.

 

The gaze directed at him turned assessing, and Morse fought not to stir, to meet it fearlessly.

 

“Well then,” murmured Thursday. “Get yourself set up and introduce yourself around – try not to alienate the whole station by lunchtime, will you? And tuck your shirt in!”

 

\------------------------

 

When lunchtime came, Thursday found him out in the main office. “Pub?” he said, and Jakes perked up at the next desk over. Thursday spared the sergeant a quick glance. “Just me and Morse today; need to get him sorted as my bagman.”

 

Jakes’ face, when Morse chanced to see it a second later, was disbelieving only for the brief moment it took to twist into something darker. “You? His bagman?” He looked Morse up and down as though he were encountering him for the first time. “You’re having a laugh.”

 

“I’m quite serious, sergeant,” Thursday said gravely, and Jakes straightened out again.

 

“Yes, sir,” he said, but the spite was still there.

 

“Come on then, Morse.”

 

Morse didn’t even have to ask to drive, Thursday just handed him the keys. “Actually, you’ll be driving me everywhere from now on. Somehow, I don’t think you’ll mind. Like cars, do you?”

 

“There’s just something about this one, sir,” Morse said as he started her up. “The feel of the engine.”

 

“She’s not a bad car,” Thursday agreed, and then directed him to a pub by the river that Morse had never been to.

 

It was autumn, but a warm one, so they sat outside with their ploughman’s and a pint. “Thought I’d treat you, first day and all,” Thursday had said, and now Morse eyed the pint speculatively and wondered if he could get away with ordering another. “You’ll be coming round for dinner tonight, but you need something to tide you over ‘til then.”

 

It was incredibly difficult not to ask. To say ‘to what degree _exactly_ am I your bagman, sir,’ and ‘what does a bagman _do?_ ’ Because there were bagmen and there were bagmen – certainly it was possible to have the position and do nothing but look out for your DI’s interests, to fetch and carry for him and pick him up in the morning. Rare, though. It sounded like Thursday’s previous bagman hadn’t even done that much – especially the looking out for his interests part. Morse couldn’t even imagine being supposed to rely on someone you thought might stab you in the back any moment. It must be exhausting.

 

“Penny for them?” Thursday said, and Morse realised he’d been silent for a while.

 

“Thinking about DS Lott,” he said succinctly.

 

“Ah. Pleasant thoughts, then.”

 

Morse grimaced, which earned him the twitch of an eyebrow.

 

“Don’t overthink it, lad, we’ll sort it all out back at the office.”

 

Morse gave a short laugh, and took a gulp of his pint. “I’m not very good at not thinking about things.”

 

“I had noticed that about you.”

 

\--------------------

 

Back in Thursday’s office, and the man started pointing at heaps of files and listing what needed to be done with them.

 

“That’s all the leftovers from the Richardson case, and – why aren’t you writing this down?”

 

”I’ll remember it,” Morse said easily, not doubting his ability for a moment.

 

“Humpf, I’ll believe it when I see it. Don’t come crying to me when you can’t make head or tail of it.”

 

Thursday stopped in the middle of the office, his back to Morse and his hands in his trouser pockets. The criss-crossed lines of his braces drew attention to his shoulders, the hands in his pockets pulled the material of his trousers tight.

 

Morse cleared his throat, and looked away.

 

“What is it, lad?”

 

“I, uh…” Thursday turned to face him. “Why did you choose me?” Morse asked abruptly.

 

“I told you, you’ve got a good head on your shoulders-“

 

“No,” Morse said strongly. “To be your bagman. Why did you choose me to be your bagman? If you just wanted another good officer, you could have just transferred me.”

 

Thursday’s gaze was weighted. “Not entirely true,” he drawled. “Given the choice, I want someone bright, someone who sees things. Someone to bring along.”

 

Morse wet his lips, found his courage. “But that’s not all.”

 

“No,” Thursday agreed. “That’s not all.”

 

He moved to sit behind his desk and loosened his tie, Morse watching every move as if his life depended on it.

 

“Come here, Morse.”

 

And, well, this was it, wasn’t it? But then, Morse hadn’t had to take the job, and it wasn’t as though he didn’t know what it entailed, theoretically. And he’d decided, hadn’t he, that he wouldn’t mind, with Thursday?

 

He nodded, but the knowledge that he’d done so caught up to him several seconds afterwards, and by then he was halfway across the room, and then the whole way, standing at the corner of Thursday’s desk and only a foot away from the man.

 

Thursday nodded at the desk. “Sit down before you fall down,” he said, and then, “No, wait,” and snagged some papers from out of the way.

 

Morse perched uncomfortably on the corner of the desk, and his brain, usually so good at calculating scenarios – and rather practiced at imagining this exact one, of late – came up with nothing but a blank on what should come next.

 

It didn’t even take Thursday raising an eyebrow for Morse to work out that he should be closer, though, so he slid sideways until his calf was pressed against Thursday’s leg where he was sitting.

 

“Well then,” Thursday said, and his hand casually came to rest on Morse’s thigh, a couple of inches above the knee. His fingers curved around the inside of it, and the slight press of them through the material of his trousers sent Morse’s skin tingling.

 

“Well then,” said Morse.

 

“This alright?” Thursday asked, and his voice was the same as when he’d said ‘good job,’ and meant it. _Genuine_.

 

“Yes.”

 

Thursday nodded, the pressure of his hand steady. “Trousers off, then.”

 

Morse reached down to undo them, the button catching and not finding the hole as he bit his lip and reminded himself that hurrying always made things go wrong. He tried again, slowly, and it went through. He hopped down, Thursday hand remaining in contact as it slid easily up to rest on his side, the lines of his fingers finding the grooves of Morse’s ribs.

 

Thursday didn’t say anything further, and Morse was grateful, letting his trousers fall and having them catch on his shoes, thinking _what the hell_ and pulling his pants down too before Thursday could ask him to.

 

He straightened, the skin on his legs and arse prickling with the sensation of being exposed, his shirt just about covering the rest of him.

 

The whole time he hadn’t looked at Thursday; he did now, and the other man’s gaze was on his face, just watching him. They stared at each other for a few seconds, then, “Bend over.”

 

Morse turned, sliding smoothly into position with a small shuffle of his feet so his trousers didn’t tangle, feeling the shirt ride up a bit and _Christ_ , this was embarrassing. Bare arsed in front of his DI.

 

His shirt was pushed up further, Thursday rising to stand beside him, and now Morse’s imagination kicked in to suggest exactly what he must look like, thank you very much.

 

Warm, slightly rough fingers bumped over the knobs of his spine.

 

“Why did you say yes?” Thursday asked, and for a moment Morse didn’t understand the question. “To being my bagman. Why did you say yes? You were going to leave, it’s not like you cared about getting ahead, or about the honour of it.”

 

The fingers had drifted to the base of his spine now, where they drew idle circles which made Morse shiver.

 

“I don’t know,” Morse said.

 

Thursday huffed. “Oh, that’s no answer.”

 

“I just-“ Morse struggled to find the words to express the thought. “It just felt right.”

 

“Hmm.”

 

Two hands now, cupping his buttocks, and they were _warm_ in the cool air of the office.

 

“Ever done this before?”

 

“With a bloke, you mean? No,” Morse admitted. Thursday’s hands stilled for a moment at that, then returned to stroking smoothly over his skin.

 

“Why did you say yes?” An edge to the curiosity now, a slight urgency.

 

Morse settled more comfortably onto his elbows, turning his head to watch Thursday’s eyes fixed upon his skin.

 

“I enjoyed working with you,” he said honestly. Then, with more difficulty, “When you asked I – well, I thought about it.”

 

“Oh, yes?” Thursday said in a low voice. “Thought about it, did you? About this?”

 

“ _Yes_.” And Morse’s breath hitched at Thursday’s touch. “Why did you ask?”

 

“I thought about it too, lad. And it’s like what you said before – it just felt right.”

 

\----------------------------

 

The End

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wouldn’t necessarily warn for sort-of dub con here, but it’s kind of a weird grey area. Dodgy as fuck :P


End file.
